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Kathryn

Alternate Title – Someone Would Really Enjoy My Life – Why Can’t it Be Me?

Let me start by telling you about two women I know.

Friend #1

She is nearly 40 and she’s fat. My friend suffers from plantar fasciitis and the doctor says it would improve if she would lose weight but she just doesn’t have the discipline to make it happen. She just can’t stop eating fattening foods.

Her husband works a lot, even when he’s at home. They’ve had some serious struggles in their marriage. This woman has three kids, all with busy schedules and most of the work of getting them where they need to be, taking care of the home, and other domestic duties falls to her. She doesn’t live anywhere near family so they aren’t able to help her or offer her support.

She lives in a modest home with an 80s kitchen and a backyard fence that’s falling down around her. However, she can’t afford to remodel or build a new fence so she has to deal with it.

Friend #2

My second friend is in her 30s. She’s beautiful and healthy except for minor aches and pains. She loves to work out and does so frequently. She’s competed in triathlons and enjoys challenging her body to do new things. She is an amazing cook and nourishes herself, her friends, and family with delicious food.

Her husband provides well for her family but also cares a great deal about work/life balance and spending time with family. He generally keeps his office hours to standard working hours and does the rest of his work from home so he can be around for dinner and to help out when he’s needed. He supported her through severe postpartum mental illness with grace and kindness, and when their marriage hit bumps in the road, he immediately agreed to attend counseling and address the issues. They are best friends and love spending time together.

She has three of the greatest children ever born, smart, healthy, and talented young people who truly care about being good people. Her wonderful and supportive extended family members are only a phone call away and she has a caring network of fun and compassionate local friends who never fail to provide her with love and joy.

This woman enjoys living in a beautiful home in the woods that stays cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Her home is filled with lovely treasures that remind her of the wonderful life she’s lived. There’s not always money to do every home project she wants because she chooses to spend it on travel and experiences with loved-ones.

Probably no surprise here, but both of these are descriptions of me.

Depending on the day, I choose one and I live it.

As I’ve been doing some soul-searching lately, I’ve been trying to figure out what it would take to make me truly happy most of the time. I’m not talking about constant giddiness. I’m talking about general peace and contentment 95% of my waking hours.

I’ve pondered a few thoughts.

1. There are many people who would be delighted to have my life. Why can’t I be one of them?
2. I have everything I need to be truly happy.
3. The world we live in encourages us to delight in misery.
4. The world needs to zip it.

So, let’s talk about number 1.

There are many people who would be delighted to have my life. Why can’t I be one of them?

When looked at objectively, I have a pretty great life. I live in a free country. I am educated and work the hours I choose as a writer. When life gets busy, I don’t need to worry about making money because I have a husband who can support our family financially. This frees me up to support our family physically and emotionally. We don’t have any real stress about finances. I am healthy. My whole family is healthy. I like my kids and enjoy being with them. My parents and siblings and Dan’s parents and siblings are all living and all wonderful. I live in a safe and beautiful community with great schools and fun activities. I’m good at stuff. I’m never bored.

So, if my life’s so darn awesome, how do I find so many things to complain about?

That teacher was rude to my kid. My daughter’s friends are causing drama. The world is scary. The person I voted for didn’t win the election. My husband was snoring last night. I never have enough time to do all the things I want to do. My foot hurts. This carpet is hideous. I’m sick of my clothes. And on and on.

By noticing and dwelling on every little thing that bothers me, I’m choosing to take a beautiful life and not enjoy it the way it deserves to be enjoyed. If I can’t enjoy this life I’ve been given, who can? And why do I do this?

I think part of it comes down to a thing I call the “Pioneer Complex”.

I’m Mormon and our early history includes countless stories of pioneers who were driven from their homes, persecuted, killed, and deprived of basic necessities. These faithful people believed they were doing God’s will and traveled thousands of miles on foot to find a place where they could worship freely. We are grateful for their sacrifices. We honor them. And we talk about them. A lot.

Sometimes I think we get in the mindset that if we’re not suffering, we’re not acceptable to God. If our lives don’t suck enough, we’re phoning it in. And I’m not just talking about members of my church. I feel like many of my friends of all faiths (or none at all) get into this mindset. If we’re not struggling or complaining, then we’re not really alive, not trying hard enough. Pioneer Complex.

It’s like bragging about how sore you are after a workout.

If you can lift your toothbrush the next day without agony, you obviously didn’t push yourself at the gym. So, we overload our schedules and we look for and emphasize the hardships in our lives. Because they make us feel hardcore or worthwhile or valid.

So many of the conversations I have with my friends revolve around how busy we all are, how much drama we’re experiencing, what health problem we’re facing. While it’s therapeutic to share our legitimate struggles with caring friends, I feel complaining has become a competitive sport. We need to one-up each other.

“Oh, you think that’s bad? Wait until you hear how crazy busy my day was.”

The truth is, so much of this suffering is by choice.

We choose what to add to our schedules. We choose what drama to focus on.

I recently had this conversation with a friend.

Friend – “Oh gosh. I have so much freelance work. It’s killing me.”

Me – “Oh no. Do you hate writing? Maybe you should change jobs.”

Friend – “No. I love it. Writing is my passion.”

Me – “Okay. Is the time commitment too much? Do you need to cut back your hours?”

Friend – “No. I’m working exactly the number of hours I want. I have the time to do it. It’s just so much.”

Okay…. So, you’re really in demand. That has to feel good. You’re working as a freelance writer because you chose that profession. If you hate it, think about changing careers. If your current load is too much, cut back. But if you love it and it’s what you chose to do, why are you sighing and talking about it like it’s your greatest trial in life?

Because we are social complainers.

If we’re complaining, it means that what we’re doing is hard. If what we’re doing is hard, then we must be strong and capable to accomplish it. Complaining makes us feel important. Pioneer Complex.

My ancestors did super hard things. Therefore, I revere them. If I do super hard things, I will be worthy of love and respect. Therefore, I must make my life as hard as possible or at least not let myself enjoy it fully because if I’m enjoying my life fully, I’m obviously not doing super hard things. Ergo, I am a loser.

The truth is, I have everything I need to be truly happy.

All the elements are there. And I want to be happy. So, I’m gonna be.

When I’m standing at back-to-school night and everyone is sighing and eye-rolling about the trauma of back-to-school shopping, I want to smile and nod and think, “I’m so grateful I have money to buy the supplies my kids need and that I live in a country where we have such great access to quality goods.”

When the news stations are playing terrorism clips or disaster coverage over and over again, I want to pray for the people and donate money and take whatever reasonable steps I can to assist. And then I want to be grateful that my family is safe and dry.

Rather than vicariously living Hurricane Harvey 24-hours per day from my safe warm house in Seattle, I’m going to enjoy living in my safe warm house in Seattle. And I’m going to help people who aren’t so lucky.

We will all experience our own share of real trauma in our lives. And we will deal with it and ask our friends for help and commiseration. But when the weather is calm, and our lives are good, we should enjoy them.

I offer you a couple challenges.

1. Write two descriptions of your life like I did at the beginning of this post and choose which one you’d rather focus on.

2. Next time you are in a conversation where friends are complaining about their lives, listen but don’t one-up or add to the drama. If a true complaint about your own situation comes to mind, go home and ponder what you can do to change your situation.

The pioneers didn’t walk across the country, losing family members along the way, so they could look cool to future generations or feel good about themselves. They did it because they had to. And when times were good, they enjoyed their lives and played the fiddle or something.

Take a look at your life.

Is it good right now? Truly? Then go play the fiddle. Your trek will come. And when it does, you can deal with it. Don’t invent one for yourself now just so you can fit in with the cool pioneers. Life is too short to put on a frostbite-starvation face when it’s actually square-dancing time.

Remember last year when I coached softball based on things I learned off of YouTube? It was awesome. Because the girls were young and I was not a horrible person. It’s easy to be a great coach to little people if you don’t hate children and you have access to the internets for instruction.

That’s also how I became an amateur electrician and learned how to redo the pipes under my sink.

Well, this year I’m not coaching softball but I’m there, cheering and providing snacks and other non-food-related support.

“RUN SO BAD!” “DO MORE OF THE BIG GOOD HITTINGS!!” Things like that.

I’ve discovered over the years that baseball and softball are a lot like quidditch. I’ll tell you how.

This team of 7 and 8 year olds plays hard. They swing the bat so hard. They run so hard. Sometimes they get out. Both teams get runs and everyone has a good time.

However, it doesn’t matter how many outs, hits, or runs you get. At the end of the game, it all comes down to the relay race. After the game is played, the girls line up. One team stands at home plate. Another team stands at second. And they race in a relay around the field, their arms pumping, their faces flushed.

And whichever team wins the relay goes away from the game victorious. It can be 27-1, but if we win the relay, we are champions.

It’s similar in quidditch. There’s all kinds of gameplay that happens during a quidditch match. People get beat in the head. Balls get thrown through hoops. There’s drama and scoring and crazy witches and wizards flying on broomsticks. Sometimes things get lit on fire. But none of that matters.

When someone catches the snitch, it’s game over. That team wins.

The relay at the end is the snitch of softball.

On certain windier, rainier games, a less loving parent might just think, “Let’s skip to the snitch.”

I’ve been struggling since mid-September and I’ve been hesitant to share about it publicly. Much. But I’ve been meditating and journaling (because that’s how we do in Drops of Awesome Land) and I’m finally surfacing. It feels like it’s time to pull back the curtain a couple of inches and share.

I don’t love the term “midlife crisis” but I’ve been throwing it around for the past several months. It seems self-centered and indulgent to refer to something as a “crisis” when it’s completely based on internal angst and has nothing to do with actual trauma.

I am getting older and my life is changing and I don’t know what that means for me.

It was a transition for me from being a Stay-at-Home-Mom to a Stay-at-Home-Something-Else.

I was free. I could be whoever I wanted. And I could do literally anything. I took that seriously.

Several friends had told me about their experiences with this change, the good, the bad, and the unattractive. Some had gone back to work fulltime. Some had taken up long-forgotten hobbies or dismantled their homes completely in a decorating binge. Others told me they’d taken a full year to sleep and recharge from their many years of full-time parenting.

I’m a planner and an optimist, so I wanted to make the absolute most of this new phase of life.

I spent a lot of time questioning and mulling things over. What mattered? What was I doing with my life? Was I okay? Were my kids okay? Was I wasting my time? Should I go back to work? Should I go back to school? I started thinking in circles and I’ll admit I got a little lost.

Do I want to go back to school and become a doctor? I could.

Maybe I should get Crossfit or take up tai chi.

What if I learned how to be a contractor via YouTube and remodeled my entire house?

I settled on getting ultra-serious about my writing career.

It’s fair to say that my career has happened tome over the past ten years. I started blogging for fun. People started asking if they could pay me. I said, “Sure.”

I wrote a novel a few years back and worked to get it published and failed. When I actually did get published, it was a non-fiction book deal because a publisher reached out to me. He liked the message of my post Drops of Awesome and wanted to capitalize on my platform and all the people it resonated with.

I was excited, but again, I just rode the waves of my life.

“I want to publish fiction.”

Squirrel!

“Someone wants to take me on a non-fiction journey? Okay. I’ll do that instead.”

And it has been amazing. I’ve met wonderful people, spoken to crowds of inspiring women and girls, had TV and radio and podcast appearances and all kinds of other fun and hoopla. I’ve defaced books with my signature multiple times and people have seen that as a good thing.

How is it then that after years of blogging for pay and selling thousands of books, I still wince when someone refers to me as a professional writer? I mean… yes… I am one?

But there’s a part of me that sees it as a happy accident.

It’s like I tripped and fell down and now I have a writing career. But I don’t feel focused or driven in a particular direction. And I feel a tremendous amount of guilt, like I’ve been given this great opportunity and I’m somehow throwing it away, like I should be doing it better.

I have books, but I don’t know how to market them well. I have a blog, but I’m stuck in limbo, not knowing what or how to write anymore. I have so much freedom in my home life, but feel glued to the spot by the sheer number of options open to me each day.

So, with the kids in school, I decided now was the time for me to research and plan and become a focused career writer. I started out strong, scheduling writing time each day.

But soon, I got roped into a cause.

I had the time, so I spent the first couple of months my kids were in school standing up to a billionaire TV-star turned politician as I volunteered several hours each day on a quixotic presidential campaign.

When I got back to writing, I found I was absolutely paralyzed. I had time. I was supposed to write or market or something. Okay, go. Be brilliant.

What had mostly been a hobby was now a vague career and it felt daunting. In the past, when I wanted to contribute to the family financially, I’d blogged for specific clients so I had clear direction. Now that I was making the rules and setting the deadlines, I felt more unsure.

I decided I had a time management problem, a focus problem. I diagnosed myself with ADD to justify my lack of progress.

And I was doubting myself as a writer.

We had a third book on the way that I was really passionate about, but the lukewarm reception to the second book filled me with doubt. I decided to pour my energy into a marketing plan for Bucket of Awesome, the third book in the Awesome series.

But I didn’t really know what to do. So, I enrolled in e-Courses about marketing. I even created one of my own to help people write their stories and promote the new book. But I didn’t have active connections in the blogging community for reviews and I couldn’t get a handle on how to pitch the book to strangers.

It’s a book to help you tell your story. It’s a book to help you discover your story. It’s a book to help you change the way you tell your story to yourself so you can actually change the next chapter of your life.

I love it. I just don’t know how to sell it. And I don’t really want to.

All writers who began writing because you really wanted to go into sales, please raise your hands. Anyone?! Bueller?

And as for my blog platform, the main reason my publisher signed my book deal, it was dying. It was dying because I didn’t know what it was anymore.

I used to write cute stories about my kids but they are old and the most bloggable things about them are not bloggable anymore. Once you hit middle school, it’s not okay for your mom to blog about everything that makes you adorable, or quirky, or wonderfully, exasperatingly real.

My most popular posts of all time were when I was sharing nuggets of wisdom I’d gleaned through years of experience. People liked when I gave advice.

However, I’m not a guru or a fount of wisdom, so when I sat down with the intention of writing something sage and life-changing, I ended up messing around online or starting new blogs about other things.

A local blog about a city so small I will never have a large readership or make any money whatsoever?

All along this journey I was reading about personal development and writing in notebooks and trying to make sense of why this transition was so hard for me and what I needed to do differently.

I made progress, slowly.

I volunteered at the school. I cleaned my house. I went shopping. I put energy into marketing activities that didn’t yield much fruit.

After several months of being home during the day without kids and not a lot to show for it, we released the third book. It happened pretty quietly.

And I mostly stopped blogging. And writing publicly. Because my writing has always been about my real-life experiences and I didn’t think I was allowed to write about what I was currently experiencing.

My midlife crisis seemed silly.

I was a Stay-At-Home-Mom with 5 free hours during the day, endless ideas for how to fill them, and no clue what to do first or how to do it well. I was paralyzed by my fear of failure and the never-ending question, “Is this what I’m supposed to be doing with my life?”

I couldn’t write because I felt like a fraud. Because I was worried I had let my publisher and my family down and that writing about it would just let them down more or somehow sabotage book sales.

Because it wasn’t okay to feel sad about my newfound freedom. “Oh. WAH! I have so many options and a supportive husband who just wants me to be happy. My life is the worst.”

Because it seemed excessively ungrateful to feel confused and demoralized when I had such an easy and blessed life.

I did have a problem, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Reaching deep inside myself to solve my “career” and “time management” problems, I’m pulling back the layers, week by week, and month by month. And I find that the core of my struggle has nothing to do with writer’s block or lack of focus.

The core of my struggle has to do with forgetting who I am and losing site of the joy and magic that makes life worth living.

Through all the doubt and questioning and self-reflection, I’m learning or re-learning four lessons that I’m working hard to incorporate into my life, four holes that need filling.

Here’s the short version:

1. I Need L.I.G.H.T – Let It Go. Hope. Trust. I am learning to let go. Of my need to control other peoples’ actions. Of my need to control what people think of me. Of my desire to project a certain persona. Of my desire to look good, sometimes at the expense of actually being good. Of my fear of failure. Of too many things to list here.

2. I Shouldn’t Be So Careful and Troubled About Many Things – I don’t need to feel stressed to feel worthwhile. I don’t need to validate my existence with a list of checkboxes and accomplishments.

3. I Don’t Have Room in My Life for Everything – I’m learning to say no to many things so I am free to say yes to the things that matter.

4. I Would Rather Be Present than Perfect – Shauna Niequist’s beautiful book has added fresh perspective to many of the thoughts I’d been struggling to frame. Reading her words often felt like reading my own journey written out. I’ve come to the realization that a real, grounded, connected life, experienced in all its joyful messiness outranks hollow perfectionism any day.

I’ll elaborate more on each of these in the coming weeks.

Soul-searching journeys are painful. It’s hard to dig into your life and heart and realize that your priorities and goals aren’t what you want them to be. Sometimes you find that you’ve been thrashing and spinning in the service of something false and shallow.

But if you don’t take the journey, you just keep thrashing. And it’s hard on your body. And your spirit. And your family. And your life.

Life is a journey worth taking with your eyes and heart wide open. I’d rather peer deep into the very core of who I am, regardless of what I find there, than never truly know myself.

At age 38, I’m coming to know this girl in a new way and I’m frequently surprised by what I find. Mostly good. Always enlightening.

Hello, Kathryn. I will take your hand. Let’s do the next 40 years up right, shall we?

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I woke up this morning feeling twice as tired as I’d felt when I went to sleep. My eyes were blurry. My head felt stuffed with cheese. I wasn’t thinking clearly. In fact, the only clear thought in my head was a strong urge to never leave my bed again.

I had been up in the night with a sick kid.

And I don’t really do that anymore. Maybe three times a year. Usually, they tell me in the morning, “Mom, I felt sick last night.”

And I, fresh and chipper as a non-morning-person can be say, “Oh man. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help you now, today, in the beautiful light of actual morning?”

All is as it should be.

But last night, my 7-year-old was up with a bad cough. And, after I’d had 4 hours of sleep (which I realize is a long stretch to most moms of young babies) she came to the side of my bed, coughed wetly into my face and said, “Moooom. I feel awful. Can I sleep with you?”

Sure. Why not? Awful is my favorite kind.

She then proceeded to sniff loudly every single time she breathed in and cough explosively every fourth time she breathed out. She shifted around and asked for water… with ice… and begged me to take her temperature. She hugged me and pushed me away and smushed up against my back.

Now there’s something cute in all this. There’s something fun about being needed. But, a few hours later, when my alarm went off and I felt like dead trampled dog meat, nothing was cute.

She sat up cheerfully and hopped from the bed.

“Get back here,” I said, “I can’t justify staying in bed and not helping the middle schoolers get ready if you are no longer sleeping. And I am incapable of moving because my brains are missing. We will sleep for two more hours.”

She sighed and climbed back next to me.

**SNIFF**SNIFF**SNIFF**COUGH!!

Right now it’s noon and I’m still in my pajamas.

The breakfast dishes are undone and I can’t quite wrap my head around showering.

And I think of you, moms of babies. And I realize that I forgot. Many things.

I remembered the cuteness and the squishy thighs. I remembered the closeness of nursing a sweet little baby in the peace of the dark night. I remembered everything wonderful about my little sweet snuggle lumps.

But I forgot the brain fog. I forgot the intense, all-consuming desire for sleep and the way your days are ¼ as long because you are not mentally aware enough for the hours to count as “waking”. I forgot what it’s like to sit and wonder whether your eyes are all the way open because everything is such a blur.

I just forgot.

And I salute you. Whenever you get dressed. Or show up on time for your older kids’ music class. Or make something for dinner that’s not cooked in the microwave. You are rock stars. And don’t let the fact that no one else remembers what it’s like make you feel bad.

I’ve often thought it would be cool to go back and write a time management book for new moms, now that I’ve got things figured out a bit more.

This morning I realized that the book would have to read something like this:

How to Get Your Crap Together as a New Mom

1. Wait 6 months until you can get more than 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep.
2. Take a shower.
3. Resume normal activities.

Awesome Lyrics is a series where I make sense of popular songs through a comprehensive translation.

Today I tackle a lyrical translation of “We Are Never Getting Back Together” by Taylor Swift.

I recall when we originally stopped seeing each other. I communicated that I was fed up because we had been separated for several weeks when you told me you wanted some time apart. This made no sense.

But then you returned and told me you had longed for my company and gave your solemn promise to mend your ways. You asked me to have faith in you. But, if you’ll recall, it was not 24 hours before you violated the very trust you had so desperately pleaded for.

I voiced my anger and dislike in the strongest possible terms. We terminated our relationship. But then you reached out to me via telephone and my amorous feelings returned.

Sadly, yesterday evening, we were forced to cease our association once more.

I’m finally at a place where I can communicate with utmost assurance that the probability of you and I resuming our courtship is extremely low. EXTREMELY, extremely low.

You may want to have a dialogue with your network, or correspond with my associates, or even interact with me personally. But the fact remains that the probability of you and I resuming our courtship is exceedingly slim, exceedingly.

I may look back with fondness on the times you sought to engage me in verbal conflict and I was duped into participating loudly and indignantly. At these times, you would withdraw and seek personal clarity through listening to independently-produced music, which you felt was superior to the recordings I have made.

This evening, I received another telephone call from you. However, it pains me to inform you that the probability of you and I resuming our courtship remains extremely low.

As stated previously, whether you discuss it with me or with the people with which either of us closely associate, the chances of a reconciliation are close to zero.

I previously entertained the notion that our relationship would last indefinitely. And I formerly said I could not close the door completely on reuniting with you at some juncture.

[He reaches out to me via telephone and pontificates that he still feels an amorous connection to me and it wears me out to the point where my energy is depleted entirely. This is likely due to the fact that I am convinced there is no longer any chance of a reconciliation, really any chance at all.]

The probability of you and I resuming our courtship remains practically non-existent.

As we were preparing for the elementary school musical last night, Wanda said, “I want to have my hair down for the show.”

This is code for, “It would be my greatest pleasure to look like my mom forgot to comb my hair tonight. She is bad at hygiene.”

“You’re supposed to look like an animal. How about if I put it in two little buns that look like ears?!”

“No.”

Somehow, I convinced her to let me try it and see if she liked it. Messy buns. She loves messy buns because they make her look like a high school volleyball player. She doesn’t know that’s why. But, that’s pretty much why.

Not this time. Thistime, the messy buns made her sob.

“Please, Mom, please. Don’t make me wear my hair like this!”

“But it’s the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life.”

“I KNOW!! I LOOK LIKE A TODDLEEEERRRRRRR! WAAAHHHH!”

We compromised with a Rey-From-Star-Wars-Style mohawk, like a mane… to go with her bat costume. And then this morning I wore my hair in two cute buns to the bus stop. I guess I showed her… something.

Our amazing school music teacher puts on about a million musical productions at the end of each school year. She. Works. HORD.

So hard, in fact, that the kids get confused by it.

Tonight at dinner, Wanda said, “Our music teacher lives at the school, like actually lives there. She eats her meals there. She sleeps there. It’s her home.”

While Laylee and Magoo tried to convince her there was no way this was true, I preferred to ask for details.

“Really? That is so interesting. Do all your teachers live at the school?”

She looked at me in disbelief. “No, mom! Just the music teacher.”

“Who told you this?”

“Pretty much Mrs. Q.” (the first-grade teacher)

So I asked Mrs Q about it at the performance tonight. She laughed and said we need to teach Wanda what an “idiom” is. When we say, “The music teacher lives at the school, it is not, necessarily, literal.” Maybe some teachers do. But ours doesn’t. Some men live in airports. Their names are Tom Hanks.

Anyway, the show tonight is one that’s been recycled every few years and it turns out to be the same one Laylee performed in her early days of elementary school. It also turns out that both girls had a solo in the same song. It is our family legacy.

Laylee:

And 7 years later, Wanda:

The force is strong with these two.

I will point out a few of things.

1. Laylee’s costume is better because parents weren’t in charge of finding costumes that year.
2. Wanda’s costume was made for three-year-old Magoo and it’s riding mighty high on her, but she refuses to relinquish it. She treasures it greatly
3. Wanda was robbed of a dramatic exit when the music teacher told her to stay at the mic until the end of the song and I feel that most keenly. The exit was really where Laylee got the chance to establish herself as a consummate performer on the elementary stage. Wanda, alas, may never get that chance.

Last week we celebrated the day Dan’s mom went to great pains to bring him into the world. His birthday’s always close to Mother’s Day so I always think of his mother. Bearing and raising kids is no joke. Raising good ones is miraculous.

He’s a good one.

And thusly do the peasants rejoice.

We rejoice with songs and cakings and trappings of all kinds. This year I gave the kids complete freedom in their gift giving. Well, with one exception. I did point Magoo in the direction of the T-Rex salt and pepper shakers and he was more than happy to ride that train to the last stop.

They were a perfect gift because Dan loves salt and pepper and he wears bowtie and… T-REX! Appropriately these came from Magoo, Magoo for whom Dan composed and performed a special dad song, entitled, “There’s a Big T-Rex Coming Down the Mountain to Eat Me,” nearly every night of his young life.

Wanda’s gifts were not song-related, unless you’re referring to bird song. She gave Dan this.

If you guessed that it’s a motion-activated singing plastic bird in mini real estate fashioned from reclaimed barn wood, you are correct. We found it at a craft fair. Bird $12. Bird WITH real estate? $15 A no-brainer, really.

But the bird + house was not quite enough for Wanda so we stepped into a local gift shop where she saw this and her eyes lit up.

“You know, how sometimes in church, you want to say something to someone on another bench but you’re not supposed to talk? This would be perfect! We should get it for him.”

And so we did. And a shiny rock from a shiny rock bin. The rock is not pictured here, as I was unable to locate it. Most likely Dan has spirited it away to his collection of very special things and it is therefore beyond my reach.

Dan wrote the current note on the sign to wave at recent dinner guests as they left, as to avoid verbal communication. Wanda thought it was for when you “aren’t supposed to.” Dan prefers to use it when he’d “rather not.”

And finally, Laylee Practicing-Is-Lame Thompson came up with the idea for this awesome gift.

He loves Laylee. He loves hearing her play. He loves jamming and talking music with her. So, she with her tenor saxophone and he with his alto, can duet the night away in dad and teenage daughter musical bliss.

Seriously though, how thoughtful is that? I could not think of a better gift idea. The girl has skills. For reals.

We’re glad he’s alive. He’s probably the best one that I know of.

And now any time he or anyone else steps on our front porch, they hear this:

***This Deal is now over, but feel free to order from the sites below. Thank you for the overwhelming response!!***

Who doesn’t want to tell their mom how Awesome she is or encourage her to record her life story?

It’s time.

Have you started shopping for Mother’s Day yet?

This week, I’m slimming down my personal author stash by offering my books at a discount for the holiday. You can get Drops of Awesome, 523 Ways to Be Awesome, or Bucket of Awesome for $10 each or the set of three for $25. I’m happy to sign them for you. Local delivery in the Snoqualmie Valley is free. This is mainly for my local friends and readers. However, if anyone wants them shipped within the US, I’ll just charge you for media mail shipping. I’ll have them at this price until my stock gets low. Let me know what you’d like and I’ll give you a shipping quote.

Of course, all titles are available still on Amazon and Familius. Familius has great discounts for bulk orders if you’re doing a Drops of Awesome event with your group.

Disclosure: This post may contain affiliate links. This means I may receive a small commission if you choose to purchase something from a link I post. Don’t worry, it costs you nothing. Thank you for supporting my website!

A couple of weeks ago my friend’s husband came to pick my kids up for church youth night. He is also my friend but this story feels more dramatic if I refer to him as “my friend’s husband.” While he was waiting for them to get ready, he asked me a question.

“Does this Saturday work for Laylee’s birthday party or would you rather do it next week?”

I had no response to this.

A. I’ve never had one of my friends’ husbands approach me about the timing of my teenage daughter’s birthday party.

B. I had momentarily forgotten that she had a birthday.

“I mean,” he continued, “We’ll want to have it fairly close to her actual birthday. We could do it at my house, but I’d rather do it at yours.”

What.

This only made it worse. I mean, he’s a good friend, but. What?

It turns out that, as he was driving the jazz band carpool, he had been talking to Laylee about the “locked room” party craze. He’s super creative and wanted to plan an elaborate puzzle like that. And so they hatched a plot. Mike would spend hours creating a locked room/puzzle birthday party for Laylee and her friends, one of whom was his daughter.

It was just that no one had told me about it. So. The confused face.

Once I was up to speed, we got to work. Mike did all the mad genius stuff and I set the mood.

The girls arrived at our 80s abode and we fed them dinner. Eggos. 80s dance music was playing.

As they were finishing dinner, I knocked at the front door, dressed as Joyce Byers. This was convenient because I just recycled my Halloween costume.

Joyce was crying as usual and told them to come out on the front porch. It was an EMERGENCY! You see, she believed that Barb was ALIIIIIIIIIVE!

While we were out on the porch, Dan and Mike threw grey thrift store sheets over everything to make it Upside-Downy and then dimmed the lights and flipped on some blue ones.

Joyce told the girls they had to go into the Upside Down and save Barb.

Back inside, Chief Hopper awaited to tell them how the puzzle worked. Everything they needed to unlock the secret door under the stairs and save Barb was on one specific book shelf and table. Then he gave them a walkie talkie and told them to contact him if they needed assistance.

The way Mike set up the puzzle, there were three numbers they needed to find that corresponded with three stickers next to a padlock.

The first riddle involved them sorting books by height. Each book had a letter on it. When sorted properly, the letters spelled Tolkien. When they looked in the Lord of the Rings books, they found a clue to another detailed puzzle. Once solved, that puzzle gave them the quote “rings for mortal men.” There are 9 rings for mortal men in LOTR, so the number was nine.

The second riddle involved an unfolded cootie catcher. Remember those little paper folded fortune tellers from when we were kids? When they folded it and held the points together, it contained a musical staff with a line of music. When they played the song on the piano, it was the theme from Star Wars.

In the Star Wars VHS tape on the shelf was an oddly cut out piece of paper. There was another piece of paper with similar markings on the table. They had to hold up the cutout paper a foot above the table paper with a flashlight shining through it.

The combination of the projected light from the first paper and the symbols on the second paper spelled out the word “quinze”, which means 15 in Portuguese. Good thing there was an English/Portuguese dictionary on the table. The second number was 15.

For the third and final clue, there was an 80s Troll puzzle half-assembled on the table. They had to put it together, squish it between two cookie sheets, flip it over, and read the message on the back. The message contained 4 quotes they recognized from Harry Potter books. Now, I know Harry Potter is not 80s appropriate, but we needed to pick books the girls would all be familiar with and time is irrelevant in the Upside Down.

They found the correct books and in their pages were the pieces to a brightly colored Sudoku puzzle. The colors matched the colors of M&Ms in a jar on the shelf. They had to solve the Sudoku puzzle, count the number of M&Ms and then do a math problem with those numbers, giving them the final number for the code.

They unlocked the door.

And found this VHS video from Barb inside.

She was ALIVE!!! And she’d left them some rad treats. Scrunchies, Coke glasses, hot pink nail polish, and makeup bags with Nerds inside.

Here is a picture of the girls watching Barb’s message. I love the older kids’ delight contrasted with Wanda’s horror. Eaten by monsters? Gross.

Whether you want to create a document outlining your life for future generations, or simply frame your history from a place of power and optimism, creating a Bucket of Awesome is your solution.

Bucket of Awesome is a writing journey to help you put your life into joyful and hopeful focus. Completing this project will help you learn and remember all the things that have made your life so remarkable.

You will get the benefit of a renewed sense of gratitude and purpose and those who come after will be inspired by a document that tells the story of your unique life and perspective.

Sign up for my free e-course and get started today!

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Disclosure: This post may contain affiliate links. This means I may receive a small commission if you choose to purchase something from a link I post. Don’t worry, it costs you nothing. Thank you for supporting my website!